The Goddaughter Does Vegas

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. Pete had no idea what would be waiting for us when we returned from Vegas.

I didn’t know for sure, of course. But we’re Italian. I am the goddaughter of the local crime boss. Reluctant goddaughter. I do my best to stay on the nice and friendly side of the law. You might even say it is an obsession for me. Certainly my wayward family thinks so.

The problem was, my Christmas wedding was being relocated to Vegas. Pete and I were eloping. We had good reason to do so. Our wedding hall had burned to the ground two days before the big day. This was not a particularly good sign. And it wasn’t the first bad omen. Just before the fire, my great-aunt Zia Sophia had seen a crow. That was never good. Sure, she was in Sicily, but omens were omens.

I might have been slightly superstitious. Not Pete. He just wanted to get married. So we’d escaped the next day and hitched a plane to Vegas. We’d kind of left everyone behind. This might be a mortal sin in an Italian family.

But there was no use ruining Pete’s mood until we landed. Who knew? Maybe it would all work out.

I looked out the window. We were thirty thousand feet in the air. No crows around that I could see.